Uncle Tom's Cabin
Eliza’s look of dismay and disappointment struck the woman, and she
said, inquiringly,
“May be you’re wanting to get over?—anybody sick? Ye seem mighty
anxious?”
“I’ve got a child that’s very dangerous,” said Eliza. “I never heard of
it till last night, and I’ve walked quite a piece today, in hopes to
get to the ferry.”
“Well, now, that’s onlucky,” said the woman, whose motherly sympathies
were much aroused; “I’m re’lly consarned for ye. Solomon!” she called,
from the window, towards a small back building. A man, in leather apron
and very dirty hands, appeared at the door.
“I say, Sol,” said the woman, “is that ar man going to tote them bar’ls
over tonight?”
“He said he should try, if ’t was any way prudent,” said the man.
“There’s a man a piece down here, that’s going over with some truck
this evening, if he durs’ to; he’ll be in here to supper tonight, so
you’d better set down and wait. That’s a sweet little fellow,” added
the woman, offering him a cake.
But the child, wholly exhausted, cried with weariness.
“Poor fellow! he isn’t used to walking, and I’ve hurried him on so,”
said Eliza.
“Well, take him into this room,” said the woman, opening into a small
bed-room, where stood a comfortable bed. Eliza laid the weary boy upon
it, and held his hands in hers till he was fast asleep. For her there
was no rest. As a fire in her bones, the thought of the pursuer urged
her on; and she gazed with longing eyes on the sullen, surging waters
that lay between her and liberty.
Here we must take our leave of her for the present, to follow the
course of her pursuers.
Though Mrs. Shelby had promised that the dinner should be hurried on
table, yet it was soon seen, as the thing has often been seen before,
that it required more than one to make a bargain. So, although the
order was fairly given out in Haley’s hearing, and carried to Aunt
Chloe by at least half a dozen juvenile messengers, that dignitary only
gave certain very gruff snorts, and tosses of her head, and went on
with every operation in an unusually leisurely and circumstantial
manner.
For some singular reason, an impression seemed to reign among the
servants generally that Missis would not be particularly disobliged by
delay; and it was wonderful what a number of counter accidents occurred
constantly, to retard the course of things. One luckless wight
contrived to upset the gravy; and then gravy had to be got up _de
novo_, with due care and formality, Aunt Chloe watching and stirring
with dogged precision, answering shortly, to all suggestions of haste,
that she “warn’t a going to have raw gravy on the table, to help
nobody’s catchings.” One tumbled down with the water, and had to go to
the spring for more; and another precipitated the butter into the path
of events; and there was from time to time giggling news brought into
the kitchen that “Mas’r Haley was mighty oneasy, and that he couldn’t
sit in his cheer no ways, but was a walkin’ and stalkin’ to the winders
and through the porch.”
“Sarves him right!” said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. “He’ll get wus nor
oneasy, one of these days, if he don’t mend his ways. _His_ master’ll
be sending for him, and then see how he’ll look!”
“He’ll go to torment, and no mistake,” said little Jake.
“He desarves it!” said Aunt Chloe, grimly; “he’s broke a many, many,
many hearts,—I tell ye all!” she said, stopping, with a fork uplifted
in her hands; “it’s like what Mas’r George reads in Ravelations,—souls
a callin’ under the altar! and a callin’ on the Lord for vengeance on
sich!—and by and by the Lord he’ll hear ’em—so he will!”
Aunt Chloe, who was much revered in the kitchen, was listened to with
open mouth; and, the dinner being now fairly sent in, the whole kitchen
was at leisure to gossip with her, and to listen to her remarks.
“Sich’ll be burnt up forever, and no mistake; won’t ther?” said Andy.
“I’d be glad to see it, I’ll be boun’,” said little Jake.
“Chil’en!” said a voice, that made them all start. It was Uncle Tom,
who had come in, and stood listening to the conversation at the door.
“Chil’en!” he said, “I’m afeard you don’t know what ye’re sayin’.
Forever is a _dre’ful_ word, chil’en; it’s awful to think on ’t. You
oughtenter wish that ar to any human crittur.”
“We wouldn’t to anybody but the soul-drivers,” said Andy; “nobody can
help wishing it to them, they ’s so awful wicked.”
“Don’t natur herself kinder cry out on ’em?” said Aunt Chloe. “Don’t
dey tear der suckin’ baby right off his mother’s breast, and sell him,
and der little children as is crying and holding on by her
clothes,—don’t dey pull ’em off and sells ’em? Don’t dey tear wife and
husband apart?” said Aunt Chloe, beginning to cry, “when it’s jest
takin’ the very life on ’em?—and all the while does they feel one bit,
don’t dey drink and smoke, and take it oncommon easy? Lor, if the devil
don’t get them, what’s he good for?” And Aunt Chloe covered her face
with her checked apron, and began to sob in good earnest.
“Pray for them that ’spitefully use you, the good book says,” says Tom.
“Pray for ’em!” said Aunt Chloe; “Lor, it’s too tough! I can’t pray for
’em.”
“It’s natur, Chloe, and natur ’s strong,” said Tom, “but the Lord’s
grace is stronger; besides, you oughter think what an awful state a
poor crittur’s soul ’s in that’ll do them ar things,—you oughter thank
God that you an’t _like_ him, Chloe. I’m sure I’d rather be sold, ten
thousand times over, than to have all that ar poor crittur’s got to
answer for.”
“So ’d I, a heap,” said Jake. “Lor, _shouldn’t_ we cotch it, Andy?”
Andy shrugged his shoulders, and gave an acquiescent whistle.
“I’m glad Mas’r didn’t go off this morning, as he looked to,” said Tom;
“that ar hurt me more than sellin’, it did. Mebbe it might have been
natural for him, but ’t would have come desp’t hard on me, as has known
him from a baby; but I’ve seen Mas’r, and I begin ter feel sort o’
reconciled to the Lord’s will now. Mas’r couldn’t help hisself; he did
right, but I’m feared things will be kinder goin’ to rack, when I’m
gone Mas’r can’t be spected to be a pryin’ round everywhar, as I’ve
done, a keepin’ up all the ends. The boys all means well, but they ’s
powerful car’less. That ar troubles me.”
The bell here rang, and Tom was summoned to the parlor.
“Tom,” said his master, kindly, “I want you to notice that I give this
gentleman bonds to forfeit a thousand dollars if you are not on the
spot when he wants you; he’s going today to look after his other
business, and you can have the day to yourself. Go anywhere you like,
boy.”
“Thank you, Mas’r,” said Tom.
“And mind yourself,” said the trader, “and don’t come it over your
master with any o’ yer nigger tricks; for I’ll take every cent out of
him, if you an’t thar. If he’d hear to me, he wouldn’t trust any on
ye—slippery as eels!”
“Mas’r,” said Tom,—and he stood very straight,—“I was jist eight years
old when ole Missis put you into my arms, and you wasn’t a year old.
‘Thar,’ says she, ‘Tom, that’s to be _your_ young Mas’r; take good care
on him,’ says she. And now I jist ask you, Mas’r, have I ever broke
word to you, or gone contrary to you, ’specially since I was a
Christian?”
Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes.
“My good boy,” said he, “the Lord knows you say but the truth; and if I
was able to help it, all the world shouldn’t buy you.”
“And sure as I am a Christian woman,” said Mrs. Shelby, “you shall be
redeemed as soon as I can any way bring together means. Sir,” she said
to Haley, “take good account of who you sell him to, and let me know.”
“Lor, yes, for that matter,” said the trader, “I may bring him up in a
year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him back.”
“I’ll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage,” said Mrs.
Shelby.
“Of course,” said the trader, “all ’s equal with me; li’ves trade ’em
up as down, so I does a good business. All I want is a livin’, you
know, ma’am; that’s all any on us wants, I, s’pose.”
Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familiar
impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute necessity of
putting a constraint on their feelings. The more hopelessly sordid and
insensible he appeared, the greater became Mrs. Shelby’s dread of his
succeeding in recapturing Eliza and her child, and of course the
greater her motive for detaining him by every female artifice. She
therefore graciously smiled, assented, chatted familiarly, and did all
she could to make time pass imperceptibly.
At two o’clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts,
apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scamper of the
morning.
Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous and
ready officiousness. As Haley approached, he was boasting, in
flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and eminent success of the
operation, now that he had “farly come to it.”
“Your master, I s’pose, don’t keep no dogs,” said Haley, thoughtfully,
as he prepared to mount.
“Heaps on ’em,” said Sam, triumphantly; “thar’s Bruno—he’s a roarer!
and, besides that, ’bout every nigger of us keeps a pup of some natur
or uther.”
“Poh!” said Haley,—and he said something else, too, with regard to the
said dogs, at which Sam muttered,
“I don’t see no use cussin’ on ’em, no way.”
“But your master don’t keep no dogs (I pretty much know he don’t) for
trackin’ out niggers.”
Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of earnest and
desperate simplicity.
“Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect they’s the kind,
though they han’t never had no practice. They ’s _far_ dogs, though, at
most anything, if you’d get ’em started. Here, Bruno,” he called,
whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultuously
toward them.
“You go hang!” said Haley, getting up. “Come, tumble up now.”
Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy as he
did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly to
Haley’s indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding-whip.
“I ’s ’stonished at yer, Andy,” said Sam, with awful gravity. “This
yer’s a seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn’t be a makin’ game. This yer
an’t no way to help Mas’r.”
“I shall take the straight road to the river,” said Haley, decidedly,
after they had come to the boundaries of the estate. “I know the way of
all of ’em,—they makes tracks for the underground.”
“Sartin,” said Sam, “dat’s de idee. Mas’r Haley hits de thing right in
de middle. Now, der’s two roads to de river,—de dirt road and der
pike,—which Mas’r mean to take?”
Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprised at hearing this new
geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said, by a vehement
reiteration.
“’Cause,” said Sam, “I’d rather be ’clined to ’magine that Lizy ’d take
de dirt road, bein’ it’s the least travelled.”
Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old bird, and naturally
inclined to be suspicious of chaff, was rather brought up by this view
of the case.
“If yer warn’t both on yer such cussed liars, now!” he said,
contemplatively as he pondered a moment.
The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken appeared to amuse
Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, and shook so as
apparently to run a great risk of failing off his horse, while Sam’s
face was immovably composed into the most doleful gravity.
“Course,” said Sam, “Mas’r can do as he’d ruther, go de straight road,
if Mas’r thinks best,—it’s all one to us. Now, when I study ’pon it, I
think de straight road de best, _deridedly_.”
“She would naturally go a lonesome way,” said Haley, thinking aloud,
and not minding Sam’s remark.
“Dar an’t no sayin’,” said Sam; “gals is pecular; they never does